An attendant respectfully tendered the weapon on a cushion. Estramadura took it, bent it into an arch between his hands, then released the point and the weapon sprang back. Flinging his cape over the sword, the matador strolled gracefully back into the center of the arena.
Toreadors and picadors had left. Only the two opponents—the huge black bull and the slender figure in red—were left in the arena.
Once more the bull charged his tormentor, and now Estramadura essayed a manoeuvre which sent the stands into positive hysteria. Waiting until the animal was almost upon him, he turned his back nonchalantly, at the same time swaying to one side. And the bull went thundering by so close that it seemed he brushed the man.
Back he came. And Estramadura, tossing the cloak at length aside, stood with right leg advanced, right arm extended with the sword, measuring his stroke. He was like a great drop of blood against the yellow background of the sand. The sunlight on his blade turned it into a ribbon of fire.
The bull charged. One short sharp “Ah” of irrepressible excitement ran through the whole vast audience. Then silence.
This time Estramadura moved. He leaped aside and thrust downward through the shoulder. The bull fell as if stricken by a thunderbolt in mid career, and did not move. The matador’s sword had pierced his heart.
Then while the stands literally went wild, and the peons, aristocrats and Americans thumped each other hysterically on the back, yelled themselves hoarse and vied with each other in tossing money into the arena, the three youths on the topmost tier looked at each other. Their faces were flushed, eyes shining.
“I thought a bull fight was a terrible sight,” said Bob. “But could anything be more graceful or daring than that?”
Above the uproar Captain Cornell, leaning close, made himself heard. “You’ve seen the best in all Spain,” he said. “That means, probably, the best in the world. The Mexican just can’t be up to that.”
But they did not get the opportunity to find out.